More Cricket Songs | Page 2

old. He is lazy
and fat,
Instead of this Thing, fit for punishment drastic,
Give,
Fortune, a son who is nimble and keen;
A bright-hearted sample of
human elastic,
As fast as an antelope, supple and clean;
Far other
than he in whose dimples there lodge
Significant signs of inordinate
stodge.
Ay, give me the lad who is eager and chubby,
A Stoddart in little, a

hero in bud;
Who'd think it a positive crime to grow tubby,
And
dreams half the night he's a Steel or a Studd!
There's the youth for my
fancy, all youngsters above--
The boy for my handshake, the lad for
my love!
THE DARK BOWLER.
I know that Bowler, dark and lean,
Who holds his tongue, and pegs
away,
And never fails to come up keen,
However hard and straight
I play.
Spinning and living, from his hand
The leather, full of
venom, leaps;
How nicely are his changes planned,
And what a
lovely length he keeps!
Because he pulls his brim so low,
However earnestly one tries
One
never sees the darkling glow,
That must be nimble in his eyes.
The
fellow's judgment never nods,
His watchful spirit never sleeps.

There was a clinking ball! Ye gods,
Why, what a splendid length he
keeps!
At times he bowls an awkward ball
That in the queerest manner
swerves,
And this delivery of them all
Takes most elastic from my
nerves:
It comes, and all along my spine
A sense of desolation
creeps;
Till now the mastery is mine,
But--what a killing length he
keeps!
That nearly passed me! That again
Miraculously missed the bails!

Too good a sportsman to complain,
He never flags, he never stales.

Small wonder if his varied skill
So fine a harvest daily reaps,
For
how he marries wit and will!
And what a deadly length he keeps!
UNCLE BOB INDIGNANT.
_("Flannelled fools at the wicket")_
Come, poke the fire, pull round the screen,
And fill me up a glass of

grog
Before I tell of matches seen
And heroes of the mighty slog!

While hussies play near mistletoe
The game of kiss-me-if-you-dare,

I'll dig for you in memory's snow,
And where my eager spade shall
go
Uncover bliss for you to share,
My Boys!
As sloppiness our sport bereaves
Of what was once a glorious zest,

And female men are thick as thieves,
With croquet, ping-pong, and
the rest,
Prophetic eyes discern the shame
Shall humble England in
the dust;
And in their graves our sires shall flame
With scorn to
know the Nation's game
Cat's-cradle; Cricket gone to rust,
My Lads
Ah, for a winged and wounding pen,
In vigour dipped, to pierce the
age
When girls are athletes, not the men,
And toughness dwindles
from the stage!--
When purblind poet cannot see
That in the games
he wishes barred,
Eager, and hungry to be free
As when it
triumphed on the sea,
The Viking spirit battles hard,
My Sons!
If you have need of flabbier times,
Colensos, Stormbergs, Spion Kops,

Tell cricketers to take to rhymes,
And smash at once the cross-bar
props.
When sportsmen, tied to sport, refuse
To offer lead the loyal
breast,
To tramp for miles in bloody shoes,
To smirch their souls, to
crack their thews,
Then let the poet rail his best,
My Hearts!
Aye, if our social state be planned
Devoid of giant games of ball,

Macaulay's visitor will stand
The earlier on the crumbled wall.

Nerve, daring, sprightliness, and pluck
Improve by noble exercise;

The wish to soar above the ruck,
The power to laugh at dirty luck


And face defeat with sparkling eyes,
My Braves!
By George, there goes the supper-bell!
And yet your duffing Uncle
Bob
Has never told you what befell
When all his team got out for
blob.
So much for bad poetic gas
That gets my ancient dander up!

Well, to the banquet! What is crass
Shall deeply drown in radiant
Bass
While we as Vikings greatly sup,
My Hearts!
THE TUTOR'S LAMENT.
I refuse to find attractions
In the ancient Roman native;
I am sick to
death of fractions,
And of verbs that take the dative:
It is mine to be
recorder
Of a boy's congested brain, Sir,
With the pitch in perfect
order
And the weather like champagne, Sir!
I--the sport of conjugations--
I am cooped up as a lodger
Where I
serve out mental rations
To a proudly backward dodger.
While the
two of us are dreaming
Of the canvas and the creases,
Close we sit
together, scheming
How to pull an ode to pieces.
Even now in London's gabble
Memory's magic tricks the senses!

Plain I hear the streamlet babble,
Smell the tar on country fences:
Down the road Miss Grey from Marlett
Skirts the fox-frequented
thicket,
In her belt a rose of scarlet,
In her eyes the love of cricket.
There's my mother with her ponies
Underneath Sir Toby's beeches,

Pulling up to share with cronies
News of grapes and plums and
peaches:
Many a gaffer stops to fumble
At his forelock as she
passes,
While the children cease to tumble
Frocks and blouses in
the grasses.

Though my body stays with duty
Here to work a sum or rider,

Mother's magnet and her beauty
Draw my soul to sit beside her!
Ah,
what luck if I were able
There to play once more in flannels,
Free
from all this littered table,
Virgil's farmyard, Ovid's annals!
There's a loop of leather handle
Peeping underneath the sofa!
Is
tuition worth the candle
When the conscience turns a loafer?
'Tis